


At Last

by OfficialStarsandGutters



Category: Shameless (US)
Genre: 1950s, Alternate Universe - 1950s, Alternate Universe - Greasers, Day 1: Firsts, GW2017B, Gallavich Week, Greasers, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-07-30
Updated: 2017-07-30
Packaged: 2018-12-08 20:51:21
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,873
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11654493
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/OfficialStarsandGutters/pseuds/OfficialStarsandGutters
Summary: For Gallavich Week Day One: Firsts-Ian recognises Mickey. He hasn't had direct contact with him before, but the Milkovich brothers are notorious around these parts. Outcasts and delinquents, they are their own gang; all greased hair, leather jackets, and nasty attitudes. Ian slows as Mickey steps to the edge of the track, pushing his sweaty hair back from his forehead.





	At Last

**Author's Note:**

> This wasn't originally for Gallavich week, but the first line started "the first time...", and it covers quite a few of their firsts, so I thought it fit the prompt well.  
> I got sucked into hours of researching every time I sat down to write at this so I didn't get it finished to where I wanted, and will probably add to it at a later date.  
> I think most of the slang is pretty self explanatory in the context, but if there's anything you're unsure of, just ask!

The first time Mickey Milkovich speaks to him is early on a Tuesday morning.

Ian drops his bag at the bottom of the bleachers and stretches his arms above his head, twisting at his hips, side to side. It's a cool morning. The air is crisp, each breath cold down his throat, fogging lightly as he exhales. He has another hour and a half before people start showing up for school. He steps onto the track, jogging lightly to the starting line. He comes early to have the track to himself. Looking at the empty stretch of it now he grins, positions himself, and jets forward.

The ground is solid and firm beneath his slightly ratty sneakers. He feels the impact move up through his legs, vibrating through his body. He cherishes it, cherishes the burn of his lungs when he pushes himself too hard, the sweat building on his brow. Running lets Ian feel alive in a way few other things do. People have suggested he join the track team, but competitiveness would sour it. It's not something he shares; it's his own personal escapism. The wind ruffles his hair as his legs start to ache, and he slows from the hard run he was pushing himself in, falling into a more manageable pace. Ian swipes his wrist over his brow and laughs in a burst of misting breath, tipping his head back and inhaling deep.

He's on his fourth lap when he spots a dark figure on the far side of the track, back to him as they move beneath the bleachers. By the time Ian has reached their side, they've come back into view, someone following them. He's watching them as he runs by, absently curious.

“The fuck are you lookin' at?” The figure he first spotted has turned to face the track now, and Ian recognises Mickey. He hasn't had direct contact with him before, but the Milkovich brothers are notorious around these parts. Outcasts and delinquents, they are their own gang; all greased hair, leather jackets, and nasty attitudes. Ian slows as Mickey steps to the edge of the track, pushing his sweaty hair back from his forehead.

“I didn't see nothin',” he says, honest. Mickey looks at him through narrowed eyes. In the morning light his eyes look like the sky; cold and blue, but bright. He twirls a comb between his fingers.

“Yeah. You better not.”

“I... Didn't.” Ian tilts his head, smiling in a bemused way. He refuses to be afraid in the face of Mickey Milkovich; in the face of anyone, really. You don't survive where they come from by letting people scare you.

Mickey clears his throat; a loud, hacking sound. He spits at Ian's feet, then drags the comb over his hair. Ian frowns, brow furrowing in annoyance. He takes a step back. Catches a glimpse of the boy in the background slipping away. He recognises him; Roger Spikey. They'd had a few rounds of back seat bingo in Roger's Chevrolet Bel Air before Roger told Ian he couldn't do it any more, that he liked girls and he had asked Susie out.

“Right,” Ian had said before he pressed his tongue against his teeth, tried to wipe away the taste of Roger. “Hope you're better at muff diving than you are at head.”

He'd walked home that night. Now he catches Roger glance back nervously over his shoulder before picking up his pace, and wonders if maybe Susie wasn't quite enough to keep his attention after all. His gaze comes back to Mickey, who has traded his comb for a cigarette, and he raises his brows.

“What?” Mickey scowls as he lights up.

“Didn't know you were tight with Spikey.”

“We ain't tight.” Mickey takes a draw and exhales smoke in Ian's face. “We just had business.”

“Ah, yeah.” Ian laughs. He takes a step back, preparing to turn to his running again. “I used to have business with Roger, too.”

He lets his eyes drag over Mickey before he turns away. He's in tight black pants, a tear on one thigh, a grease stain on the other. His t-shirt is clean and white, though, tucked into his pants. The leather jacket has seen better days; obviously well worn, deep creases around the arms where it sees most movement. His dark hair is gelled into a ducktail; mostly combed back with one stray curl pulled forward over his forehead. His eyebrows are raised and angry at the suggestion hidden in Ian's words, his blue eyes wide, his tongue pushing at the corner of his lips as the cigarette lingers in front of them. Ian grins, winks, and takes off running again.

“Fuck you, Gallagher,” Mickey yells after him. Ian's laughter blends with the wind.

*

Ian is walking home from school, minding his own business, when all of a sudden there's a hand clutching the back of his t-shirt. He chokes as the neckline presses against his throat, the sharp pull sending him stumbling back from the street into an alley. He turns swiftly, knocks the hand away with a raised arm. It's Mickey, his expression tight and angry.

“What are you doin'?” Ian's eyebrows raise. He tugs the front of his shirt away from his neck roughly, an ugly red line left across his pale skin.

“Shut up.” Mickey shoves him. Ian's back hits the brick wall, hard. He winces, moves to push Mickey back, but he's quicker. His palms slam into Ian's shoulders, drive him back against the wall again. His shoulder blades scrape painfully through the material of his shirt. “Whatever you think you saw this mornin'-”

“You, under the bleachers with Roger Spikey?”

Mickey pulls him forward and slams him back again. Ian's eyes close against the pain. When they open again, he glares at Mickey.

“You keep your lips fuckin' zipped, you hear me?”

“Or what?” Ian juts his chin out, silent challenge. Mickey headbutts him hard enough to send him sinking to the ground, clutching his aching nose.

“Or you'll regret it.”

“I'm not afraid of you,” Ian says to Mickey's retreating back, wiping blood from beneath his nose. Mickey looks back over his shoulder.

“You should be.”

*

“Ian. What the hell happened to you?” Fiona looks at him with raised eyebrows as she passes him in the diner, plates in both her hands. Ian waves off her concern.

“It's fine. No biggie. I'll clean it up before I get changed.” Ian lifts the counter and slips behind it, glancing across at Lip, who's seated on one of the stools. “Who's watchin' the little monsters?”

“Debbie's got it covered until I get back. Just came to see if there were any leftovers goin'.”

“Keep your voice down,” Fiona hisses, coming under the counter after Ian. “And I told you to go round the side.”

“Alright.” Lip holds his hands up, stands, and waits for her to disappear into the kitchen before he looks at Ian. “Someone pound on you?”

“I'm fine.”

“Who was it?”

Ian's eyes skim the diner; some of the kids from school already starting to trickle in. He shakes his head.

“I'll clue you in later. I gotta get cleaned up and changed. See you at home.”

“If anyone's botherin' you-”

“I'm fine,” Ian insists, back to Lip, already making his way to the back.

*

Two days later, he's leaving the diner when he hears his name.

“Iaaaan Gallagher.” He looks up to see Mickey strolling towards him, swinging a baseball bat by his side. “Told you to be afraid, pretty boy.”

“Aw, I'm flattered you think I'm pretty.” Ian grins. Mickey's face is momentarily blank, then flashes with anger. Ian takes that as his signal to start running.

His backpack slows him down, bouncing against his back as he runs, but not by much. He's still a lot faster than Mickey, slowly stretching his lead a bit further. That is, until a car comes tearing out of a side street so suddenly that Ian runs straight into the side of it and lands on the hood with a groan. Laughter cackles from the open window. Ian glances at the wind shield to see the car packed with older Milkovich brothers; Joey and Colin in the front, Iggy in the back, peeking between the two front seats. Ian scrambles off the other side of the car, panting as he recovers from the shock and forces his legs to move.

“Are you guys fuckin' stupid? You're meant to stop him,” he hears Mickey yell, as he pounds his feet against the sidewalk, each breath ripped from him now. Ian hears a car door open and slam, then the loud hum of an engine as they floor it.

He can outrun Mickey, easy. Outrunning a hotrod? Not so easy. The three older Milkovich brothers share their Hudson Hornet. It is closer to brown than red, and pretty battered up, but they've worked on the inside more than the outside, and the engine roars quite healthily as they swiftly gain on Ian. His heart is at the base of his throat, beating hard. His lungs are starting to protest. The muscles in his legs ache.

There's a loud bang from behind him and the lid of a trashcan clatters, rolling along the side of the sidewalk before it falls flat. Ian steals a glance over his shoulder, sees Mickey leaning out the car window with the bat raised.

“Look pretty scared to me now, Gallagher.”

Ian flips him off, then jumps away from the road as Mickey swings the bat at him. He's starting to lose pace when the buildings part, and he turns sharply into an alleyway too narrow for them to follow in their auto. Ian doesn't look back at the squeal of breaks, the sound of doors opening, voices yelling at each other. He just keeps moving forward until he reaches a wire fence. Without hesitation, he tosses his backpack over and scales it with ease. He drops down on the other side, landing hard on his ankle. A twinge of pain shoots through it. Ian lets his weight move off it, falling into a roll and grabbing his bag as he jumps up. As he stands, Mickey reaches the fence, red faced and angry.

“You're a dead man,” he says.

Ian flips him off again, then takes off jogging before they can follow him over the fence.

*

Ian dumps his bag in his room and peels his sweat soaked shirt over his head, still panting from the earlier excursion. Lip watches him from the top bunk, one leg dangling over the side, book propped up in his hand.

“What happened to you?” he says.

“Just runnin',” Ian says.

“Don't you get enough of that already?”

Ian doesn't answer, tugging his socks off and starting to peel his pants down his legs.

“Someone chasin' you?” Lip asks knowingly. Ian shrugs. Lip rolls his lips in, then parts them with a smacking 'pop'. “You never clued me on who gave you the knuckle sandwich.”

“No one.”

“Your nose just decided to bleed by itself?”

“It was a headbutt. Not a punch.”

“I stand corrected. Who introduced their skull to your nose, then?”

“Mickey Milkovich,” Ian says, tone causal. He still doesn't look at Lip.

“You're fighting with Milkovich now? You get in some kind of trouble?” Lip slips down from his bed, landing on the ground with a muffled thump. Ian finally looks at him, making a show of rolling his eyes.

“No, I'm not in any trouble.”

“Then why'd he pound you?”

“He thinks I've got dirt on him.”

“Do you?” Lip's brows raise, interested.

“Not sure,” Ian says, moving towards the bathroom. “But I might have soon.”

*

Ian catches Roger coming out of the locker room after practice. He's laughing with two of his team mates, but the smile freezes then falls from his face when he sees Ian. His eyes are wide, and he glances sideways at his friends in alarm. Ian resists the urge to roll his eyes, flashing a charming smile of his own.

“Hey, Roger, can I talk to you for a sec? It's about Sarah,” Ian says. A lie. He has no interest in discussing Spikey's younger sister, but it's enough to throw his jock friends; one cheers, another makes a lewd gesture. Roger steps away from them, and Ian follows him into an empty corridor.

“What?” He folds his arms over his chest, tense and defensive. It makes Ian want to laugh. Roger's had his dick in his mouth before, had Ian give him head, and now he acts like just talking to him is some great inconvenience.

“What were you doin' with Mickey Milkovich the other morning?”

Roger pales.

“Nothin',” he says, eyes flicking down the corridor behind Ian as if he's outlining escape routes. Ian steps closer, effectively blocking him off. He puts his palm on the wall above Roger's shoulder and leans towards him.

“Didn't look like nothing to me,” he says, his voice low.

“What's it to you?” Roger puffs up his chest, trying to look intimidating. After being chased by the Milkovich brothers, it takes more than that to scare Ian.

“Okay, Roger, lemme put this simply; you tell me what you were doin' with Mickey Milkovich, or I start spreading news of what I know you like to do with boys.”

“You wouldn't. You'd get pounded on, too.”

“Never said I'd say it was with me. What're people gonna think if they find out the quarterback is a shirtlifter, huh?”

“They wouldn't believe you.” Roger turns his head away, defiant. Ian huffs a laugh.

“You sure about that? And if not me, well, they might listen to my brother, and he knows a whole lotta seniors.”

Fear flickers in Roger's eyes, and Ian knows he's got him. His cheeks flare red.

“He'll kill me if he finds out I told you,” Roger says, voice little more than a whisper.

“Our secret.” Ian draws an 'X' over his chest. “Cross my heart.”

“We were... Y'know.” Roger looks at the ground. The colour in his cheeks darkens. Ian smirks. It's cute; like he's got any modesty left when it comes to this. Still, he remembers kneeling, cramped behind the passenger seat, even with it pushed forward. He remembers the taste of Roger on his tongue, his dick hard in his trousers, and being denied relief. Being tossed after Roger had gotten his rocks off one last time. He remembers, and he takes pleasure in Roger's discomfort.

“I don't know, Roger. Clue me in.”

Roger glares at him briefly, then looks away again.

“I gave him head.”

“He ask you to do that?”

“It happened before... When we were blitzed at Parker's bash.”

“He give you head, too?”

Roger shakes his head.

“Just used his hand,” he says, quiet. “Just that once. Said he'd tell his brothers I was a fag if I didn't do what he wanted the next time.”

“And he wanted you to give him head?”

Roger nods, stiff and embarrassed. Ian pats his cheek and coos condescendingly; a fake imitation of pity.

“Thanks, Roger. Guess you're not a complete flake.” Ian winks at him as he steps away.

“You can't tell him, Ian. He'll kill me.”

“Maybe I will, maybe I won't,” Ian says, already sure of what he's going to do. “You'll just have to wait and find out.”

He blows a kiss towards Roger's pale, stricken face, then turns on heel and leaves him standing alone.

*

It's another early morning the next time he sees Mickey. Ian is running sprints on the track today; running as fast as he can in bursts until he can't breathe, slowing to catch his breath, then repeating. He's flushed red, sweating heavily, and his chest is tight as he pants in deep breaths when Mickey steps onto the track, lazily dragging from the cigarette between his fingers. Ian slows as he approaches him, coming to a stop about a meter away. Mickey regards him through hooded eyes. Ian looks back, his chest rising and falling with each heavy breath.

“You think you got away, Gallagher,” he says, and flicks the butt of his cigarette away. “But you ain't. No where to hide now.”

“I have no intention of hiding,” Ian says. His words don't hold quite the amount of impact he'd like due to the breathlessness of his voice. He pushes his sweat damp hair back from his forehead. “I'll leave that to you.”

Mickey's chin tilts up, and he raises his eyebrows.

“What you sayin'?”

“Just that I wasn't the one hiding under the bleachers.” Ian holds his gaze, refusing to be intimidated. The space between Mickey's brows furrows, and his eyes narrow into a glare.

“You better watch your mouth, kid.”

“Or what? You gonna put your dick in it?”

Mickey moves forward with a speed Ian doesn't expect and punches him hard in the stomach. Ian groans and bends with the pain, but when he comes up again, his fist clips Mickey's jaw. Mickey moves his head with the impact, then punches Ian back, sending pain bursting from his cheekbone across the side of his face. Ian steps back, then springs forward and headbutts him. Mickey starts to go down, but he grabs Ian and drags him with him. They land hard on the ground, rolling as they both fight for dominance. Ian ends up on top, his palms pressing into Mickey's shoulders, but his legs are tired from sprinting, and Mickey has more solid muscle mass. He flips them suddenly. Ian's back hits the ground hard, forcing air from him, then Mickey's weight is on his chest, legs either side of his head, knees effectively pinning his arm down.

Heat flares from Ian's stomach, shoots down to pool in the valley of his hips, makes his cock throb.

“You shut your fuckin' mouth.” Mickey is breathless now, too, panting as he stares down at Ian. “You dunno what the fuck you're sayin', Gallagher.”

“I talked to Spikey. He told me everything.” Above him, Mickey's hand hesitates. Ian surges on. “Not just the bleachers, but Parker's bash, too.”

“I dunno what that cube said-”

“I think you do, Mickey. I think you know exactly what he said. I think that's why you're so salty. You're scared that I know.”

Mickey punches him again. Pinned down, Ian takes the full force of the hit. He gasps as pain explodes through the side of his face. His teeth slam against his lip and he tastes blood. He spits it to the side, then glares up at Mickey. He's had time to catch his breath, but he's still breathing erratically, eyes wide.

“Shut the fuck up.” Mickey's voice is low, dangerous, all wrapped up in threat. It shouldn't turn Ian on, but it does.

“You gonna make me?” Ian's eyes blaze with challenge. Mickey's jaw tenses in response.

“You're cruisin' for a fuckin' bruisin', Gallagher.”

“Too late for that.” Ian pushes his tongue into the slit skin of his lower lip. As he does so, he casts an eyeball over Mickey, coming to stop at crotch of his tight jeans. There's a visible bulge there. Ian raises his eyebrows, a smirk curling at the corner of his mouth. It tugs on his cut lip and stings, but it still feels like victory. “Not that you seem to mind.”

Mickey flushes. He looks wild and dangerous, but also unsure of how to proceed. A cornered animal, frightened but ready to fight his way out.

“I ain't gonna tell anyone,” Ian says, voice softer now, a different approach in an attempt to settle Mickey. “That's not what this is about.”

“Then what is it about? 'Cause it seems to me like you got a death wish.”

“Nah. Like I said before, Spikey and I used to have business, too. You're better off shot of him. He gives shitty head.”

Mickey sits back on his heels, his weight still pressing Ian down, but less insistently now. He looks wary, a little confused, but less angry.

“That your issue? You mad he clanked you?”

“No.” Ian snorts a laugh. “I just want you to call your fuckin' brothers off, man. I prefer not getting chased home on the daily.”

“You expect me to believe that's all?”

“Guys like us are pretty rare. Think it's a good idea to know each other, yeah? Solidarity.”

“Yeah, right.”

“'Cept Roger. He can go fuck himself.”

Mickey huffs a laugh. Slowly, he shifts himself off Ian and stands. After a moment, he offers Ian a hand, and pulls him to his feet. His fingers linger around Ian's wrist for several moments more than necessary.

“You're not so bad, kid,” he eventually says, pulling out his cigarette pack and sliding a fresh one between his lips. He glances at Ian, before holding the pack towards him.

“Thanks,” Ian says, and takes one. Mickey leans in close to light it for him, cupping a hand around the tip. When the flame catches, his eyes move from the cigarette up to Ian's, bright blue. He shifts the cigarette between his lips and presses it against the tip of Ian's to take a light from him. Ian doesn't dare blink until Mickey steps away.

“I'll tell my brothers to quit it,” Mickey says, decisive, before turning and starting to walk away.

“See ya around,” Ian calls after him. Mickey flips him off over his shoulder. Ian grins at his retreating back.

*

Two days later, Ian is on his way home from school when Mickey's red Chrysler Windsor Deluxe Convertible pulls up beside him. Mickey leans across to open the passenger side door.

“Get in,” he says.

Ian blinks, surprised. He looks from Mickey, down the street where he was heading, then back again.

“I've got work in twenty minutes.”

“Then you better not waste any time.” Mickey smirks. It crinkles the corner of his blue eyes. “Or you scared?”

Ian huffs a laugh and pulls his bag off. He tosses it onto the floor of the car as he climbs in, pulling the door closed behind him with a bang.

“Ey. Be careful with my baby,” Mickey scolds. The engine rumbles as he presses on the gas, and they jolt forward.

“Sorry,” Ian says, grinning. He casts an eyeball over Mickey's car. It is in much better condition than his brothers' Hudson. The body is clear of any dents, scrapes or marks, and the leather of the seats is clean and unmarked. “Nice car.”

“She's more than nice, man. She's fuckin' beautiful.” Mickey pats the dash, gentle and admiring. “Was a bit rough when I got her, but I fixed her up myself.”

“You work at a garage, right?”

“Yeah, my uncle's.”

Ian nods. He's heard rumours that the garage is more a front for illegal money than an actual business, but it's like a second home to the Milkovich brothers. If they're not working on autos, they can usually be found hanging around out the front of the garage, smoking in their leather jackets or grease stained t-shirts.

“Cool,” he says, stealing a glance at Mickey from the corner of his eye. “So... Where we goin'?”

“Just thought you might like a ride.” Mickey doesn't look at Ian as he says that. His fingers drum against the steering wheel as his tongue pushes at the corner of his lip. Ian is briefly captivated.

“Oh. Thanks?”

“Consider yourself fuckin' lucky. I don't let anyone in my car.”

Ian grins, sensing the unspoken message of this invitation. He reaches across the bench seat and brushes his fingers along the side of Mickey's thigh. Mickey tenses momentarily, wide eyes surveying the street like someone could see that, but then he looks at Ian with the smallest hint of smirk.

“You wanna do something sometime?” Ian asks.

“What time you in work to?”

“Half eight.”

“I'll pick you up. We can go for a real drive.”

“Cool.” Ian smiles and slowly retracts his hand. Mickey turns the radio up. Perry Como's voice bounces around them, smooth and upbeat.

_Don't let the stars get in your eyes, don't let the moon break your heart._

Ian reclines in his seat and bobs his head to the music as Mickey drives them a twisting, turning route to the diner to make the journey last longer. When he pulls into the parking lot and cuts the engine, Ian looks toward him once more.

“So... I'll see you later, then?”

“Yeah.” Mickey doesn't look back at him, distracting himself by lighting up a cigarette. “Later.”

Ian grins as he makes his way behind the counter.

“What're you so happy about?” Fiona asks, strands of loose hair billowing around her face as she scurries around behind the counter, sticking an order note up with one hand while balancing dirty plates in the other.

“Good day,” Ian says, taking the plates from her. She flashes him a grateful smile and touches his cheek as she passes.

“That's good.”

Yeah, Ian thinks. It is.

*

Mickey's propped against the hood of his car when Ian steps out of the diner. His leather jacket lies open, his white shirt clinging to his body, the small bulge of his stomach soft above his jeans. He tips his head up to exhale smoke, a cigarette hanging loosely from between his fingers. Ian smiles automatically at the sight. The sound of the jukebox from the diner carries out behind him onto the evening air, but as the door falls shut in his wake, they are left in the quiet of the street.

“About time,” Mickey says, even though it is only a few minutes after half eight. He props the cigarette between his lips and circles towards the driver's side. Ian jogs across the car park and slides into the passenger seat, taking care as he gently clicks the door shut this time. “Better.”

Mickey grins and offers him the cigarette. Their fingertips brush when Ian reaches for it, and he feels a tingling warmth spread from his fingers all the way up his arm. He inhales, holds the smoke as he hands the cigarette back to Mickey, then exhales slowly. Mickey watches him with the smallest hint of smile before he starts the car. As he swings them out of the car park, he flicks his cigarette butt out the open window. The night air is cool and fresh as it comes in through Mickey's open window, caressing Ian's face, ruffling his hair. Mickey's remains gelled in place, unmoved.

“Where are we goin'?”

“Down to the river,” Mickey says. “Can really floor it down there. Show you what this baby can do.”

Giddy excitement bubbles in Ian's stomach; both at spending time with Mickey, and the idea of speeding along in this car. No one in his family has an automobile; an unnecessary expense they can't afford. It's not like he's never been in a car before, but it's a rare occurrence, and he's definitely never been burning rubber in a hot rod before.

As they move from the glow of the city lights towards an area that is dimmer, with sparser street lamps, Ian can start to pick out stars in the navy blue stretch of sky above them. With the star sprinkled sky above him, and the fresh, cool stroke of the breeze on his face, he feels free and giddy, almost childlike in the joy that is rising inside him.

“Nice night,” he says, quiet, kind of dreamy. Mickey snorts, says nothing.

They drive along the river bank until they reach an area where a ramp leads down to the drained river bed. There's skid marks burned into the concrete, left behind by the tyres of the drag racers. Mickey straightens his car up, then looks across at Ian with a wild grin.

“Ready?”

“Yeah.”

Mickey floors the gas and they jolt forward, burning rubber. The engine roars with effort as the car presses forward, and the wind comes quicker now, whipping Ian's hair. He laughs, winds down his own window so he can feel the breeze sharp against his face. His laughter is swept away by the rush of the wind. He puts his hand out, feels the pressure of the air pushing against it. The sides of the river woosh past in a blur. The word goes from warm orange light, to dark, to light, to dark as they pass beneath the reach of the street lamps, until the distance between them stretches further. Mickey stops under an old bridge, where the light doesn't reach. He turns off the headlamps, leaving them in the hazy evening darkness. The engine cuts out. Ian's chuckle softly subsides, and then there is just the sound of their breathing.

As Ian's eyes adjust to the dim, he looks across at Mickey, who is staring back at him, tongue pushing at his lower lip. It is Ian who makes the move to slide across the bench seat, cornering Mickey against his door. He reaches for him, hand cupping his jaw, leaning towards him. Mickey freezes and jerks his head away.

“What the fuck are you doin'?” He hisses, voice quiet, but it feels loud in the space between you.

“Oh, I thought- Is this not why you brought me?”

“I don't do kissin'.”

“Why not?”

“Too fuckin' gay.”

“Mickey, havin' a guy give you head is gay. Wanting a guy like that is gay. Kissing won't make you any gayer.” Mickey is still tense beneath his touch. Ian trails his thumb along the line of his jaw. “You ever kissed anyone before?”

Mickey goes still, silent, barely breathing.

“That's alright. I can show you.”

This time, Mickey stays in place as Ian closes the distance between them. His lips meet Mickey's, plush and soft, a little chapped. There's a rough scratch of stubble from his upper lip, and Ian presses firmer, savours the slight burn of it. Mickey exhales in a rush through his nose, and Ian smiles against his lips, tilting his head slightly to slot them together better. He presses, eases the pressure, presses firm once more before he withdraws.

“There. Ain't so bad, right?”

“You and Spikey do that?” Mickey asks, eyebrows raised.

“I don't wanna talk about him.”

“Did you?”

“Yeah.”

Mickey huffs out through his nose, and this time, he is the one to reach for Ian. He grips firm at the back of his neck, fingertips pressing painfully into his skin, and drags him close. Their mouths hit too hard, painful as their teeth press through their lips. Mickey doesn't ease up. He presses even harder into the kiss, possessive and claiming. The kiss is clumsy, but the emotion behind it flares heat in Ian's stomach. He fights back, catching Mickey by the waist and dragging his lower half closer so he can press his upper half down onto the seat, can rest his weight between Mickey's legs, rolling their hips together. Mickey grunts and presses back against the friction, tugging rough at Ian's hair. Ian gasps, then slides his tongue between his parted lips to glide over the crease of Mickey's.

Mickey goes still again as Ian wriggles his tongue between his lips. He keeps his jaw locked, his teeth clenched, and Ian has to rub his thumb in soft circles against his jaw to get him to release. When he does, Ian moves his tongue slow, brushes it gently against Mickey's. It takes a few attempts at this before Mickey presses back, ready to take control of the kiss again, forcing Ian's tongue from his mouth as he opens it wider, rolls his tongue forward against Ian's. Ian hums in the back of his mouth and slides his hands beneath the base of Mickey's shirt, feeling the softness of his stomach.

They are fumbling and frantic from there, pulling at each other's clothes, getting pants down over hips, enough that they can palm each other through their underwear. Ian trails his fingers up lightly over Mickey's before pressing his palm against it and grinding soft. Mickey grabs him firmly and squeezes, almost too hard.

“Jesus fuckin' Christ, Gallagher.”

“What?” Ian pants against Mickey's kiss damp lips.

“Size of you.”

Ian laughs, breathless, and directs his kisses down Mickey's throat as Mickey's fingers feel up and down the length of his cock. It's not long before Mickey is pulling away his waistband, nudging Ian back so he can get a proper look.

“You gonna stare all night or you gonna do somethin' 'bout it?” Ian's mouth quirks up in a smirk. Mickey goes still again, looking at him warily, unsure. “Shit. You've never given head either, have you? Roger said-”

“Like I wanted to blow that asshole.” Even in the dim light, Ian can see that Mickey's cheeks have darkened. As if to prove himself, he shoves Ian back, flipping their positions so he can shuffle down between his legs. “How hard can it fuckin' be?”

Mickey goes too fast on his first time, and ends up gagging.

“Hey, use your hand here. You don't have to take it all.”

“Fuck off.”

“I'm tryna help.”

“Don't.”

Still, Mickey does as he says, using his hand around the base as he lowers his mouth slower over the tip this time. Ian's lashes flutter. He keeps his eyes open just long enough to appreciate the sight of Mickey's plush lips around his cock, his eyes looking dark in the dim, watching Ian as he bobs his head. Then Ian's head is falling back as he sighs in pleasure, and it's not long before he's tangling his fingers in Mickey's hair and tugging in warning.

“Mickey, I'm gonna-”

Then his orgasm hits and his fingers tighten in Mickey's hair. Mickey pulls back, come dripping down over his lower lip.

“What the fuck, man?” He punches Ian in the thigh.

“Ow! What?”

“You have to do that in my mouth?”

“I tried to warn you.”

Mickey sighs, rolls his eyes, and leans over to spit out the window.

“Fuckin' raunchy.”

“It's not that bad,” Ian says, setting his hands on Mickey's thighs.

“What are you doin'?”

“I was gonna do you back.”

“Oh.” Mickey relaxes a touch, wiping his hand on the back of his mouth and watching as Ian sinks down between his legs.

He makes quick work of taking Mickey into his mouth with much more confidence, stroking the base while he gets used to it in his mouth, learning how much he can take, licking along the tip every time he draws up. It's not long before Mickey is making short, gruff grunts above him, his thighs shaking as he comes. Ian swallows and shifts back, grinning up at Mickey.

“Well, you're better than Spikey,” Mickey says. Ian gives his thigh a swift, nipping bite. “Ow. Fuck off.”

Mickey bats him away, and Ian goes, laughing. They straighten up their clothes and Mickey lights up a cigarette. After he takes the first drag, he hands it across to Ian, and turns the radio on.

_Stars fading but I linger on dear._

_Oh how you linger on._

_Still craving your kiss._

_How you crave my kiss._

*

Ian sees a lot more of Mickey after that. Most days, they meet up at least twice; once in the morning beneath the bleachers, usually after Ian's run. Here, they usually get each other off quick with their hands, panting breaths mixing between heated kisses, urgency brought on by the risk of getting caught. Then later in the evenings they drive down to the river bed and give each other head. Mickey's come along in leaps and bounds, is much better at pacing and knowing how much he can take, and his tongue is sinful. Afterwards they share a cigarette, listen to the radio, and drive around town for a while before Mickey drops Ian off at the end of his street.

“You ever sort that trouble with Milkovich?” Lip asks him one evening, when Ian comes breezing through the door, humming softly to himself.

“Hm? Oh, yeah. All good.” Ian flashes him a smile, and Lip raises his eyebrows.

“What about that dirt you had on him?”

“Just a misunderstanding. We're cool now. Mickey's alright.”

“What, you're his scooch now?”

“Uh. Yeah.”

“Ian.” Lip's tone is serious now, his brow furrowed. “You shouldn't be getting mixed up with the Milkovich gang. Those guys are bad news.”

“Awh, don't be such a square, Lip. I'm fine. I'm not getting in any trouble.”

“Good, 'cause I won't be getting your ass out of it.”

Ian flips him off with a laugh as he heads for the shower, still catching undertones of Mickey's scent clinging to him.

*

“Shit.” Fiona sighs, tucking a stray strand of hair behind her ear. “I don't need this today.”

“What?” Ian follows her line of vision to the door, where Mickey has stepped in. He's toying with a comb between his fingers as he surveys the diner. His eyes linger briefly when they land on Ian, his mouth twitching, before he glances away. “Mickey?

“Since when are you on first name basis with any of the Milkoviches?”

“Mickey's alright. I see him around school sometimes.”

Fiona frowns, disapproving, and Ian resists the urge to roll his eyes. Her and Lip would really have a reason to disapprove if they knew why he actually knew Mickey Milkovich.

“You go deal with him then,” Fiona says, pushing her pen and pad into his hands. Ian disguises a smirk by rubbing his hand across his mouth before making his way to where Mickey is propped on a stool by the counter.

“Hey,” he says, eyes crinkling as he smiles. Mickey runs the comb over his hair before sliding it into his jacket.

“Hey,” he says back, blue eyes sliding down over Ian's form, making him tingle.

“What can I get ya?”

Mickey raises his eyebrows, and his tongue pokes at the corner of his mouth, like he wants to say something dirty.

“Chocolate milkshake,” is what he actually says. “And some fries.”

“Sure. I'll get them to you shortly.” He flashes Mickey a smile before turning to pin the order up.

During Mickey's visit to the diner, Ian feels his eyes on him almost constantly as he moves around, collecting plates and rubbing down tables. Mickey purposefully cuts across his path at one point on his way to the jukebox, smirking at Ian as he passes. The saxophone doesn't give it away to start, but once he hears Ella Fitzgerald's voice, he realises it's the same song from their first night together. Ian snorts and shakes his head. Mickey catches his eye and raises his eyebrows with a smirk.

_Dream a little dream of me._

*

“We should do something sometime,” Ian says one night, almost five weeks after their meetings have started.

“What we doin' right now?” Mickey glances at him as he blows smoke out the open window.

“No, but like, something fun.”

“What, you wanna go out?” Mickey scowls.

“Not like we're going steady or anything.”

“Right.” Mickey thumbs at his lip. “Why else would we be hangin' out?”

“Friends exist, Mick. C'mon.” Ian bumps his knee against Mickey's. “Let's just go to the arcade or get ice cream sodas from the candy store. Something we don't gotta hide.”

Mickey's jaw tenses, rolling in small, tight circles as he glares out the windscreen. His shoulders are tense, as is his temple, brows furrowed. Ian sighs and sinks back in his seat, expecting to get shot down.

“You free on Saturday?”

“Uh.” Ian blinks. “I gotta work until lunch time, but then I am.”

“Okay.” Mickey starts the car. “I'll pick you up, then.”

Ian grins the whole way home.

*

Saturday morning drags for Ian. He's only in for a five hour shift, but it feels so much longer. He barely waves goodbye to Fiona before he's got his apron off and is bounding out the door, finding Mickey smoking out the window of his car.

“Hi.” Ian slides in beside him, beaming brightly. Mickey automatically smiles in response before fighting it away with a scowl.

“Let's get this over with, then,” he says, but Ian does let his lack of enthusiasm sour his good mood. Mickey agreed to this. He wouldn't be here if he didn't wanna be.

They go to the arcade first. Mickey turns out to be pretty good on the pinball machines.

“Lots of practice,” he says, trying not to sound pleased after Ian compliments him. “My brothers and I used to come here for a kick.”

They take turns playing Basketball Champ with varying levels of success, have several aggressive games of foosball (Ian just scraping the most wins), Ian wins Mickey candy from the claw machine (Mickey totally flushes the lightest pink, but when Ian comments on how cute his blush is, he gets a solid punch to the arm), and stop by the faded old crone of a fortune teller to have their fortune told.

“Okay,” Ian says, having gone first. “Mine says: 'You recognize and appreciate the better things in life and are ready to work to accomplish them.' Ha. Not bad.”

Mickey scoffs.

“What about yours?” Ian tucks his fortune in his pocket.

“Alright. 'You have many friends, all of whom admire your strong character and even disposition.' Bullshit.”

“Hey, don't tear it.” Ian pulls it from between Mickey's fingers and tucks it away with his. Mickey stares at him hard. “Keepsake.”

“Whatever, man. Let's go. I'm starvin'.”

Ian follows Mickey along until something catches his eye, then he brightens with fresh excitement.

“C'mere.” Ian jogs ahead of Mickey, ducking inside a photo booth. His head emerges from behind the curtain, flashing a wide grin. Mickey follows at a slower pace, eyeballing Ian with suspicion. He stops several steps away from the booth.

“What are you doin'?”

“I wanna get a photo of us. C'mon.”

“Someone will see.”

“No one will see, Mick. That's the point. And it develops right away so no one will see the picture either.”

“Yeah but if you keep it-”

“I'll keep it secret. In my wallet.” Ian tilts his head, looking at Mickey with wide, puppy dog eyes, his chin pushed forward in a stubborn jut of determination. “C'mon, Mickey. Don't be a square.”

“Fuck you,” Mickey says, but after a nervous glance around, he quickly steps forward and slides into the booth beside Ian. There's limited space, and they end up pressed together as Ian reads the instructions, presses at some of the buttons, and pushes his coins in.

“Okay, smiling one first?” Ian smiles brightly as Mickey sullenly glares at the camera. It flashes for their first picture. “Awh, c'mon, smile.”

The next photo is both of them laughing as Ian tickles Mickey to get him to smile. His eyes are closed and his lips parted as he laughs. Mickey's eyes are crinkled, his shoulders raised defensively as he tries to duck away from Ian, swatting at him with one hand, his top teeth visible in a mixture of grin and giggle.

In their third photo, Mickey purses his lips to the right side and furrows his brows as he flips off the camera. Ian closes one eye, sticks his tongue out, and flips the camera off with the opposite hand to the one Mickey is using.

For the final photo, Ian waits until it's just about to flash, then drags Mickey in to press a hot, firm kiss against his lips. The camera flashes. Shortly after, Mickey shoves Ian away hard, eyebrows rising towards his hairline, eyes wide and angry.

“What the fuck, Ian?”

“I just wanted one of us, y'know...”

“If anyone sees that-”

“They won't.”

“Damn right they won't, 'cause you ain't keepin' it.” Mickey reaches for the strip of photos sliding out of the printer slot. Ian grabs his wrist. Mickey tries to yank his hand free, but Ian holds firm, looking at him with soft eyes.

“Mickey.” His voice is soft, gentle, cautious. “I won't let anyone see it. I swear.”

Mickey puffs out his cheeks, then exhales in a sharp sigh. He stares at Ian hard for several moments before the tension melts out of his shoulders.

“Dunno what you want it for anyway.”

“'Cause I like bein' able to look at you when you're not around, and... I guess I like proof that this is real.”

“'Course it's fuckin' real.”

“Sometimes it doesn't feel real.”

Mickey sighs again, softer this time, but understanding seems to cross his face. He leans in quick and kisses Ian, brief and chaste, but with a certain sweetness to it that makes Ian's heart flutter in his chest. As he kisses him, he does pull the strip of photos out, but rather than tearing them, he turns them so he and Ian can look at them.

“Guess they didn't turn out too bad,” Mickey says. Ian thinks that's an understatement. Ian thinks they're perfect. “You look good.”

“ _You_ look real good,” Ian says, turning to press a kiss to Mickey's cheekbone. His expression softens, just for a second, and a hint of pink colours his cheeks, before he clears his throat and elbows Ian in the ribs.

“Shut up.”

Ian gently plucks the photo strip from Mickey's fingers and folds it neatly along the dividing lines of the four photos. Then he tucks it safely into his wallet.

“Now you'll be with me wherever I go.”

“You're sickenin' sometimes, y'know that? Worse than a girl.”

“But I give head better than a girl.”

Mickey contemplates for a moment.

“Yeah.” He nods his agreement. “That's true.”

Ian laughs and kisses him again.

*

They get fries and burgers from the drive thru, then stop at the candy store for ice cream sodas. Ian is nursing the swollen bump of his stomach as Mickey drives him home.

“I had fun today.”

“It was alright,” Mickey says. Ian reaches across and squeezes his thigh, causing the corner of Mickey's mouth to flicker briefly into a smile. When he stops at the end of Ian's street, he doesn't look at him, continuing to stare out through the wind shield. “You wanna catch a movie next Friday?”

Ian grins, sliding across the bench seat to press against Mickey's side. Mickey's eyes widen in alarm.

“Yeah. I'd like that,” Ian says, and gives Mickey's cock a squeeze through his jeans. Mickey elbows him, and Ian moves back, laughing. “See ya on Monday?”

“Sure,” Mickey says, and as Ian moves out of the car, he catches the flash of his smile.

*

Mickey takes Ian to the same passion pit he went to with Roger Spikey, but he keeps that little fact to himself, not wanting to spoil the tone of their evening. They don't actually pay much attention to the movie itself. The ads are barely over before they're in the back seat, Ian's mouth on Mickey's neck, and his hand pressing at the front of his jeans. Mickey pants and rolls his hips up against the touch.

“Want my mouth on you?” Ian whispers, hot and low against Mickey's skin. Mickey nods with enthusiasm, and Ian slips down between his legs.

By the time they're done, the windows are steamed up and they've both worked up a sweat. Ian slumps down in his seat, low enough that he can lean into Mickey's chest as Mickey plays with his hair.

“You got some locks, Red.”

“Irish descent,” Ian says sleepily.

“Yeah?”

“Yeah, my grandparents came through Ellis Island before the turn of the century. Grandpa got sick as a dog on the trip. My granny liked to tell the story in explicit detail.” Ian pulls a face.

“Guess Gallagher does sound pretty Irish.”

“No shit.”

Mickey smacks the back of Ian's head, but he laughs it off, tilting his head up to steal a chaste kiss.

“Hey, you want some popcorn? Maybe actually watch the rest of the film?”

Mickey's eyes go bright at the mention of sweet food, so Ian brings him back a candy bar and a soda as well, just to see the childlike smile it earns him.

*

“Hey, you ever... Try putting anything.. Y'know.” Mickey makes a gesture. Ian chuckles.

“Up my ass?”

Mickey shrugs.

“Yeah,” Ian says. “Didn't really like it.”

“Oh.” Mickey goes tense beneath Ian's touch. Ian works his fingers into the back of his scalp, dotting kisses along his jaw.

“You try it?”

Mickey shrugs.

“Hey, I told you.”

“What does it matter?”

“Did you like it?”

Mickey falls silent, averting his eyes, jaw clenched. Ian presses a kiss to the hard line of it.

“It's okay if you did, Mick. People like different things.”

Mickey's eyes soften, but just barely.

“You wanna try that some time?” Ian reaches down to grab Mickey's ass, pulling him closer, pressing a finger along the crease of his jeans. Mickey squirms at the touch. “Want me to put my fingers in you?”

Mickey bites his lower lip, eyes half hooded. Instead of answering, he grabs Ian roughly and drags him into a kiss so forceful it hurts, but in the best way.

*

The next time they are together, Ian pulls a glass jar of Vaseline out of his backpack. Mickey eyeballs him warily.

“You wanna try this?”

After a moment of hesitation, Mickey nods.

Ian strips away Mickey's pants and underwear and spreads him across the back seat. He trails his hands over Mickey's thighs, trying to calm the tension held there, pressing kisses over Mickey's stomach and hips as he moves down. He spends a while licking at Mickey's cock to distract him before he takes the tip into his mouth, suckling as he coats his index finger in Vaseline. He trails it over Mickey's opening, feeling him clench.

“Relax,” Ian murmurs, before taking Mickey in his mouth again. He starts to press his finger forward before Mickey can reply. Mickey exhales shakily, eyelashes fluttering as he adjusts to the new sensation. Ian sinks his finger in slowly, taking his time, watching Mickey through pale eyelashes to see how he reacts. “This okay?”

Mickey nods, his fingers pushing through Ian's hair before catching, holding. They clench and loosen a few times as Ian slowly shifts his finger, starting to move it in and out. After a few minutes of this, Mickey gasps and his hips jerk.

“Fuck,” he says, breathy, the sound enough to make Ian's own cock ache. “There. Touch there again.”

Ian does. Mickey moans, surprised out of him. Ian smirks around his cock and starts pressing his finger firmer and swifter against the spot as he sucks Mickey off. It's not long before Mickey is coming apart beneath him, thighs quivering, fingers gripping white knuckled in Ian's hair, a sharp jolt of pain through his scalp. He releases when he's done, relaxing back against the seat, breathing hard.

“Fuck,” he says, glassy eyed.

“Good?” Ian grins as he moves back, licking his lips. Mickey nods mutely, then reaches for him, dragging him down into a kiss.

*

“You ever drive before?” Mickey asks him one warm Thursday evening. The sun is still high in the sky and they're standing in the empty river bank, Mickey lounging back against his car. Ian, not daring to lay a hand on Mickey's baby for fear of losing it, stands in front of him, watching how the sun catches in Mickey's eyes and makes the blue even brighter, makes them look like they're glowing.

“Nah. Just the Auto Drive down at the arcade.”

“That don't count.”

Ian shrugs, easy, and lightly kicks at the edge of Mickey's foot. Mickey kicks him away.

“You wanna try?”

“You... You'd let me drive your car?” Ian's eyes are wide with surprise. Mickey snorts.

“As if, bitch. No one drives my baby but me.”

“Oh.”

“Should be able to get one from the garage, though. We could bring her down here. Let you go for a spin. I could teach you.”

“Cool.” Ian smiles, big and bright. Mickey automatically smiles back, before turning his head away.

“Come round after my shift on Saturday. I'll see what I can get.”

*

Ian shows up five minutes before five on Saturday. When there's no sign of Mickey outside the garage, Ian lets himself in. Mickey's bent over the front of a car, his usual leather jacket abandoned. He's wearing a white vest that displays the strong muscles in his arms, covered in oil and grease stains. When he straightens up, Ian can see his face also has a few stains on it. He smiles, lopsided, at the sight.

“Hey.”

Mickey turns swiftly, holding out a wrench.

“The fuck, Gallagher? Don't sneak up on me like that.”

“Didn't realise I was sneakin'.” Ian shrugs. Mickey rolls his eyes, waving towards a bench at the side of the room.

“Wait over there a minute, I'm almost done.”

Ian sits up on the bench and watches as Mickey works, sweat glistening on his skin. He's dirty, sweaty, flushed red, but so attractive that Ian finds himself slack jawed and has to make a conscious effort to close his mouth.

“Alright, I'll get cleaned up real quick and we can go,” Mickey says. As he walks past, Ian catches him between his legs and pulls him in close.

“But I like you all dirty,” he murmurs, breathing in the mixture of grease, oil, and Mickey's scent.

“Ian,” Mickey says, alarmed, eyes darting towards the door.

“No one's here,” Ian says, pressing a kiss to Mickey's temple.

Something clatters and Mickey springs away from Ian like he's been burned, eyes wide and startled, a wild animal caught in a trap. Then he notices it's just the wrench that's slipped out of his hand and he relaxes slightly, shooting Ian a warning sign but taking the distraction as opportunity to slip away. Ian grins after him.

*

“Okay,” Mickey says, as he leads Ian around towards the back of the garage. “So, she's an old one, and she's a little battered, but she'll do.”

“Oh, wow,” Ian says, as a black car comes into view. “What type is it?”

“1940 Ford Coupe.” Mickey's already smoking, could barely wait until they'd stepped out of the garage to light up. “She came in in pretty bad shape, but we're getting her fixed up.”

“Does it drive okay?”

“Oh, yeah. We checked the engine and all first. She's quite a racer, actually. Just a lot of surface damage from a crash.”

“A crash?”

“Drag races, man. That's the dangers.”

Mickey drives them down to the river bed. Ian feels nervous excitement squirm in his stomach. He watches the familiar buildings roll by, shifting into scenery he's grown so familiar with over the past couple of months. Then they're descending into the river bed, and Mickey is slowing the car, bringing it to a stop. He motions Ian over, shifting over his lap as they change seats.

“Okay, your gears are here on the right. You start here, in first. I'll talk you through it.”

Their ride starts off jumpily at first, lurching forward as Ian tries to ease it into first gear, but once he has the car running they go much more smoothly.

“Good. Give her some more gas and you can just shift right up to third, and don't be afraid to push it. Ain't nothin' to crash into down here.”

Ian laughs at the car speeds forward, pushing his window down a crack so he can feel the wind through his hair. He drives for several minutes, until they start to approach their usual spot, then brings the speed down a bit.

“Keep goin',” Mickey says. “Or we can try turning and goin' back and forth.”

They end up spending a good half an hour with Ian driving back and forth, before they pull into the shade of their bridge and share a cigarette.

“Not bad, kid,” Mickey says, smirking as he glances at Ian from the corner of his eye.

“Almost better than you.”

“Ey, I don't think so.”

Ian laughs and leans his shoulder against Mickey's. Mickey leans back, still smiling, still smelling like the garage. Ian breathes him in and sighs contentedly.

*

The first time they have sex, Blue Tango is playing.

Ian stretches Mickey out with his fingers in the back of his car, watching as Mickey squirms and pants and writhes beneath him with hungry eyes. The song starts after he's pressed himself in; long, slow, taking his time, letting Mickey adjust, adjusting himself to the sheer tightness. Mickey's face is less than an inch from his, and their breathing mingles between soft kisses; reassurance more than heat.

One hand settles on Mickey's thigh, the other interlocks their fingers together, pressing Mickey's over his head. Ian bites his lip and exhales shakily as he sinks in the last inch, meeting Mickey's eyes; hooded, pupils blown wide. He shifts in discomfort beneath him.

“You okay?”

“Just gimme a minute.”

Ian stays still as the music swells, filling the car. Mickey squirms, trying to find a more comfortable position, squeezing Ian's cock as he does so. Ian closes his eyes and tries not to move, until Mickey breathes out in a sigh.

“Okay,” he says.

“Okay,” Ian says, and starts to move, still slow, so slow.

They breathe against each other, hot sweat slick skin pressing together. Ian buries his face in Mickey's neck and breathes him in. Mickey tangles a hand in Ian's hair and clutches like he's holding for dear life. Everything feels sharp and electric, too much, not enough, close, suffocating, but in the best way. They're both panting, the windows steamed, the car rocking beneath them.

“Fuck,” Mickey says.

“Yeah.”

“Ian.”

“Yeah.”

Then the heels of Mickey's feet are pressing into his lower back, his arms around Ian's neck, drawing him close, moulding them together.

_At last-_

The song has changed, but neither of them notice.

“I love you,” Ian says, hand on Mickey's cock.

_My lonely days are over._

Mickey's eyes flutter shut, and he moans as he comes.

*

_We'll kiss again._

_Like this again._

They stay naked and curled together in the back seat, Ian's letterman jacket tossed over their hips in a makeshift blanket. The back seat of Mickey's car was not made for lying in, definitely not for someone of Ian's height, but he keeps his legs curled up and his back propped up against the side. Mickey lies against his chest, absently stroking patterns on Ian's skin with his fingers.

“That okay?” Ian eventually asks.

“Yeah,” Mickey says, a touch hoarse. “Fuck yeah.”

“Good.” Ian presses a kiss to his forehead. Mickey glances up at him, his face scrunched in seriousness. “What?”

“You mean what you said?”

“I don't even remember half of what I said.”

“You know what I mean.”

“Yeah,” Ian says, forcing himself not to look away. “Yeah, I meant it.”

Mickey sucks on his lower lip, like he's having an internal battle, before he gives a brief nod.

“Yeah,” he says, resting his head back against Ian's chest. “Me too.”

Ian grins and squeezes him close.

_Auf wiedersehen, sweetheart._

 


End file.
